The Terrarian V2 (Rewrite)
by Dawnk41
Summary: The tale of Greg Veder, Brockton Bay's latest addition to the cape scene. With powers that seem unconventional, he wonders if the good he can do might turn out to be unconventional as well...
1. Overworld 1-1

The Terrarian  
1.1  
Overworld

A boy sits in front of a television, eyes fixed on the screen, while costumed characters dart across it. His hands hold a controller, across which his fingers dance, pressing buttons in a strange concert of keys, an orchestra of motion instead of sound. One thumb expertly maneuvering a joystick, the other hovering over a large button that it occasionally presses for brief moments. Suddenly, the boy leans forward slightly, growing tense. The room, already silent save for the murmuring cacophony that blares from the television, grows even more so as the sounds seem to dull, muted ever so slightly. The atmosphere is almost palpable, a weighty air fills the room as though gravity itself is increasing in strength. The tension skyrockets higher and higher, until finally, in a crescendo-

Greg cheered as the words ' **YOU WIN** ' scrolled from the top of the screen. Finally! He had been playing 'The Reclamation of Kyushu' nearly non-stop for the past week, taking full advantage of the winter break to really accomplish something. Something meaningful. Truly, he couldn't _think_ of a more worthy goal that he could have spent the month on than making his way through the backlog of games, repeatedly receiving that oh so satisfying 100% on _four_ different titles. He finished _those_ games by the 24th, in anticipation of this, the newest, the greatest, _the most beautiful_ game that would ever exist. At least, until the next in the series came out. Since he opened the game on that holiday morning, he had been thinking about the challenge that the developers had set. _"The Reclamation of Kyushu has so much content, it would take at least a month to beat the game on every difficulty that we have to offer."_ Well, if he wasn't mistaken, he had just blown that estimation out of the water.

He got up and stretched, which popped the bones in his shoulders, making him wince. Then, he padded over to his laptop, swiveling the chair 360 degrees before facing his trusty computer, he awoke it from sleep mode and chugged a can of soda. Quickly, he made his way to the TinkerToy forums, where he would post his grand achievement and bask in the admiration of all the lesser- He paused, taking in the titles of some of the top threads. Oh, some guy in South Dakota had beaten the game in 3 days, suffering from dehydration in the process. He'd be out of the hospital in a few months, according to the most optimistic estimates. Greg saluted the man, honoring his dedication. He closed the webpage and almost instinctively began to type in the address of his _other_ favorite forum before stopping.

Oh yeah, he was still banned from PHO for another week. Oh well, it would seem that he didn't have anything else to do but play another game. Sighing, he shut down the laptop and pushed away from the desk, rolling his chair a few feet across the floor. Rocking back in the chair, he managed to get himself out of it using the momentum. Tapping his chin, he sat on the floor next to his game tower, cross legged. Let's see, He'd beaten 'Surviving Zurich', 'Machine-God of Wisconsin', 'Escape from Ellisburg'... He'd even beaten 'Nolodie', a dinky little indie game with decent gameplay, but a terrible plot. He continued down the tower, and when he reached the bottom, he froze. No, it couldn't be, he must be hallucinating, it just wasn't _fair.  
_  
Greg fell backwards and lay flat on the floor, heedless of the game tower he knocked over in the process. Then, he wailed. "I've beaten _all of them._ "

OoOoO

Greg's sour mood followed him to school the next day, and he continued to ponder his plight. The next game he had his eye on didn't come out for three weeks, what in the world was he supposed to do after school until _then?_ With a practiced ease, he slipped his way through the halls of Winslow, orbiting jocks, slinking past preppies, and circling cheerleaders. However, he had gotten within three halls of his first period class, when he heard a certain phrase. "Ugh, Daniel, I don't know what I'm gonna do man. I've beaten _all_ of my games, and 'Journey to the Center of the Earth' doesn't come out for three _weeks_." The voice was plaintive, almost, dare he say... whiny. It was _also_ a phrase that resonated with his very soul. After a few moments of standing still while he tried to angle his head and learn where the voice came from, he located his blood-brother, and honed in.

"You too, huh? You've beaten 'Reclamation of Kyushu' already?" Greg cheerfully interjected. The other boy became startled, nearly falling off of his perch on the desk that sat outside the science room.

He answered warily. "Uh, yeah. I beat it last night. Who are you, exactly?" The way he asked was very pointed. Greg, however, didn't understand the concept of barbed conversation.

"I'm Greg. I'm in the same boat as you. I beat it last night, and I just can't figure out what I should play for the next few weeks. You guys have any ideas?" Greg leaned on the desk slightly, causing the boy to shift a little to escape the invasion of his personal space.

The boy standing next to the door was the one who answered this time. "Not yet, though I might be getting one... I'm Daniel, by the way. This is Graham." Daniel's voice was quiet where Graham's was firm. Graham grunted at his introduction, but remained silent. After a short hesitation, Daniel continued. "I think I might have an idea."

Graham looked up. "Oh? What do you think _we_ should do?" He stressed the word and glanced back at Greg, eyes narrowed. Greg simply smiled brightly, and looked at Daniel who, sighing, spoke again.

"Well, we couldn't do this with just the two of us, _Graham,_ but remember how last year you were interested in game design?" Daniel folded his skinny arms, and did his best to look determined.

Graham shifted uncomfortably, and spoke, slowly. "Well, yeah, but... What can Greg here even do for that?" The look he shot at Greg here was not as scathing as before, but instead measuring, as if he was trying to gauge Greg's talents based on appearance alone.

Greg perked up. "Oh! Game design? Let's see... I can draw pretty well. You need art, right?" Daniel smiled at this.

"Yeah, that's great! I can do the programming, and Graham can do the music. _All_ of us can help design it." He elbowed Graham, who looked plaintively at him, but Daniel stood his ground, until Graham finally sighed.

"Alright, alright. Let's meet up here after school. We can set up a time and place for all of us to meet up later then, alright? For now, we should probably get to class though." Greg grinned and agreed. Graham swung himself off the table and Daniel straightened up, before they started walking into the science lab. Daniel waved to Greg as he left his view.

Then, the bell rang. Greg's eyes widened as he realized that he was going to be late to class, and he dashed down the hall while calling back towards the open classroom door. "Alright, I'll see you guys then!"

OoOoO

A week later, they all sat around the dinner table at Greg's house. The three had made a schedule of where they would work on the game each day, and Greg's mom had been ecstatic that he would be working on something instead of 'Lazing around the house like a sloth.' Daniel sat on a bean bag that had been dragged in from the den, laptop on his knees. His eyes were firmly focused on the screen in front of him, and the sound of typing filled the room. Graham sat at the table across from Greg, with headphones in his ears and a device in front of him that Greg couldn't quite remember the name of. He, too, was focused on his task.

Greg stared down at the paper in front of him, looking at the character he had drawn with a critical air, before nodding. He carefully picked up the paper and added it to a neat pile of similar drawings. Then he popped his neck and pulled another clean sheet from another pile, and paused. "Hey, Daniel? Had we decided on whether or not we were going to have different enemies at night?"

Daniel, shaken from his concentration, looked up. "What? Oh, uh," He clicked something on his laptop a few times before staring at something on the screen for a few seconds, and continued, "Yeah, could you draw up a zombie? Maybe a few different types, you know, like, a couple different sizes, maybe one with some arrows in him."

Greg nodded. "How about one with one of the Gel Monsters on his head? He could drop some slime, like they do." Daniel considered the idea, and then looked back up.

"Yeah, that sounds awesome! You can draw all of that?" He had one eyebrow raised, as though uncertain that such a task was feasible.

Greg simply beamed in return. "You bet I can!" At this, Graham looked up, and took out a headphone.

"What's up?" He asked, curious of the conversation he'd missed.

Daniel waved him off. "Nothing, Graham, we were just talking about some enemy types." He looked back down at his computer and started typing again, while Greg put his pencil to the paper once more.

Graham's eyes narrowed.

OoOoO

"Look, I'm not saying that Bats don't make sense on the surface, it's just that the way we designed them, they're a bit too powerful for that area." Daniel was speaking to Graham, hands together in a pleading gesture. "If we put them on the surface, players wouldn't be safe at night for ages, we don't want them to have to depend on shelter for _too_ long."

Graham was unswayed. "Then why can't we just add another type of bat that's weak enough to be on the surface without unbalancing the game?"

At this, Greg stepped in. "I don't know, we already have a flying enemy for that area. Demon Teeth wouldn't be as special if there were other flying enemies that early." Daniel smiled at Greg and looked back at Graham.

He wasn't happy, and it was obvious, but he caved from the combined stares of the others. "Ugh, fine. Bats can stay as an underground enemy." He sighed, while Greg and Daniel whooped and high fived.

After another hour of work, Daniel closed his laptop with a _click_ and made an announcement. "Hey, my dad gave me some money for some snacks, do you guys want to grab something from one of the shops?" They were at Graham's house that day, and he lived near a street that was filled with small stores that sold all manner of treats.

His head whipped up so fast it was a wonder Greg didn't get whiplash. "Definitely! You coming Graham?" Greg turned to the third member of their group, and Daniel leveled a questioning stare on him as well.

Graham was quiet for a moment, but then he answered. "Of course. Why would you even ask?" He said, tone jovial. The other two, satisfied, went about packing up their work. Once their gazes were elsewhere, the smile on Graham's face died, and his face went blank as he put away his sound board.

OoOoO

"Argh, how could we be so _stupid!_ " Graham huffed, running his fingers through his hair. "We put _way_ too much stuff in since the last test. We should have done it sooner!"

Daniel was quiet. "I'm sorry, I wish I was a better programmer, this is probably my fault. I should have run it more often, and then we wouldn't be in this mess." Graham's eyes went wide as he realized that Daniel was taking it so personally. His mouth froze as he tried to think of what to say to reassure his friend, but Greg beat him to the punch.

"It's not your fault man, we're a team. Right guys?" Daniel nodded, and Graham followed. "Still, it's not ruined, we'll have to work on getting the game to work on older computers, but in the meantime, surely we can find a computer _somewhere_ that we can run the test on? Maybe the public library?"

Graham shook his head. "No way, have you seen those things? They're even worse than _our_ computers. Argh..." The three were silent for a time, wracking their brains for an answer.

After a few minutes, Daniel began to speak, voice measured and low, as though trying to make sure he didn't spook his idea away like a frightened rabbit. "You know... my dad works for an advertising firm downtown. I'm pretty sure they have some pretty good computers. I could ask him, see if we might be able to borrow one of their computer labs for a morning?"

Greg grabbed both of his friends by the shoulders. "That sounds great! This is going to be an awesome game, I can feel it. Definitely ask your dad. Right Graham?" He glanced to his right, where Graham was chuckling.

"Yeah man, go for it." He had a small smile on his face for the rest of the afternoon.

OoOoO

 _ **Author Note:**_ Woohoo! The rewrite is on its feet, and here we go! If you're a returning reader from the old version, thanks for staying on! If you're a new reader, welcome! I hope to make this story a much more satisfying affair than the last. As always, criticism and notes are welcome. Please, review!


	2. Overworld 1-2

1.2  
Overworld

Greg pulled on his jacket as he got ready for the day. It was identical to the one that Daniel wore, as the other boy had recommended it when Greg had mentioned that he needed a new one. He slipped his clipboard and a sheaf of paper into a small backpack, just in case they had any ideas that he could work on while they were there. Then, he was off. He got into the car, his mom already adjusting the mirrors. As they drove, he thought of the game, as he often did. The latest TinkerToy game had come out a week and half prior, but he hadn't really paid it any mind. No, the game that he was thinking of was none other than their own. Perhaps they could add some sort of Boss Gel monster? It could shed smaller ones as it went. But how to ensure that a player couldn't just hang somewhere high and shoot it freely...

When they reached Daniel's house, he was already waiting on the front step. He stood up as they approached, and he dashed down the driveway to the car, nearly tripping as he did. Over one shoulder, he had his bag, like he always did. Among other things, it contained his laptop and some design notebooks. Stepping into the back seat next to Greg, he greeted Greg's mom. "Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Veder!"

Mrs. Veder simply laughed. "It's no problem at all Daniel. I'm all too happy to help out. Now, just to double check, Graham's house is..." Daniel guided Mrs. Veder through the streets until they reached the Clive residence. Unlike Daniel, Graham wasn't waiting for them as they arrived, so the duo decided to go up to the door. Just as they knocked on the door, however, it swung open and Graham stepped out.

He was breathing heavily, which the other two took to mean that he'd gotten up late again. It wasn't exactly a rare occurrence. "Sorry about that, alright, let's go! Shotgun!" He very nearly yelled the last word. A few steps from the car, however, he started patting his pockets. "Snap, I forgot my medicine..."

Greg very nearly groaned. They should get going already! "You can take it when you get back, come on, let's go!" To emphasize his point, he slid into the back seat, and after a brief hesitation, Graham shrugged his shoulders and stepped into the passenger seat. Once the three were secured, Mrs. Veder began the drive towards downtown.

OoOoO

As they stepped out of the car, they listened to Greg's mom's parting words. "Alright, stay safe kids! I'll be back to pick you up at around noon, alright? That give you boys enough time?" After rolling his eyes at being called a 'kid', Greg and the others assured her that yes, that would be plenty of time. Greg looked up in fascination at the PRT building down the street while Daniel led the way up to the doors. After pulling out a lanyard with a key on it, Daniel let the trio into the building. After a few minutes of searching for the right lab, they found it in the basement of the firm. Greg and Graham waited off to the side while Daniel booted up one of the computers.

Once it was up and running, Greg clapped his hands together. "Alright, time to test. Who's going first?" Graham began to raise his hand when Daniel spoke.

"How about you go first Greg? I can tell you're just dying to." He said with a wry smile.

Greg rubbed his neck sheepishly. "You sure? What about you, Graham?" The largest of the three didn't look completely satisfied with the arrangement, but he nodded. Greg eagerly sat in the chair and pulled up the file on the flash drive that Daniel had plugged into the computer. Starting up the game, he leaned forward in anticipation.

OoOoO

For each of the boys in the building, there was a man of particular note that had to do with the state of it. In 2003, November 6th, Paulson Construction had been working on the foundation of a building. Reggie Paulson, onsite manager and foreman, had been having a pretty good day. The work had been going well, his wife had called to tell him that there was a Salmon Meuniere calling his name, and if he wasn't mistaken, they'd actually be finishing ahead of schedule today. All that they had left to do was place the steel supports that would connect the basement to the main floor, and lay a bare framework for said floor. Wouldn't take hardly any time at all, really.

Reggie opened the second to last crate of materials, and looked in. Yep, those were the supports, all forty-two... There were only thirty in here. His mind went blank for a moment, and then he consulted the blueprints. A few minutes of baffled examination later, he glanced back at the crate. Whoever had these drawn up ought to be fired. Thirty supports wasn't regulation, it might be structurally sound, but for how long? Then again...

If he called this in, in all likelihood, the whole crew would have to wait around for a new crate to arrive from the supply yard. That could take hours... He chewed on his lip, something his wife had tried to get him to stop doing, but when he was torn between two decisions, he couldn't help himself.

Well, he could hardly be blamed for following the blueprints, could he? I mean, that was his job. Besides, the regulatory amount was overkill, everyone knew that. The numbers were so high because some bureaucrat at the Zoning and Planning office didn't want any lawsuits crossing his desk for the slightest thing. The building would be fine, for a good decade at least. By then, it would probably have been torn down, honestly.

One of the senior workers walked up. "Boss? Something wrong?"

Still, he hesitated for another few seconds...

He smiled, though it didn't reach all the way to his eyes. "Nothing's wrong Sean, let's get to work."

Later that day, when he bit into his Salmon Meuniere, it tasted a bit like ash.

OoOoO

2007, August 30th  
If there was one thing that Mark Wallace knew, it was that he didn't get paid enough for this. Of course he had to waste his weekend on this. Some idiot intern had forgotten to shut one of the basement windows, so of course that evening it had to have one of the heaviest rainfalls in years. After all, why not? So much equipment, ruined. On top of that, they had to hire a crew to clean up the place, keep the carpets from molding, all that jazz. Mark let out a sigh. If he could just figure out which intern it was... He should probably let all of them go, just to be sure. One of the crew members came up to him, and he did his best to give the man the appearance of attention. "Yes?" He said tiredly.

The man spoke in a slightly slurred tone, forcing Mark to suppress a curling his lip."Jet Rammell, sir. We've cleaned the carpets and applied a sealant to the floor underneath 'em and to the walls. Still, I'd recommend you get the foundation checked sir. The water could have caused some damage there." Mark grimaced. Another expense? Was there no end to them? All the same, he thanked the man and signed the paperwork. Oh how he didn't want to be the one to tell the higher ups about all of this. The equipment, the floors, the walls, and now the foundation? That sounded like it could match the price of all the others _combined._ Mark didn't want to lose _his_ job over this...

He paused, and looked around. The place looked fine. What had that cleaner been talking about? Mark stood there for a while, letting the gears turn in his brain.

That bastard, he probably had an in with some of the inspection workers! If he paid for an inspection, he was probably just playing right into the man's hands! Collusions, backdoor dealings... well, he, Mark Wallace, wasn't going to fall for that!

If it was just the price of the cleaning and some new equipment, it probably wouldn't look that bad to the higher ups. Just to be sure, though, out of the goodness of his heart, he'd pay for a little of the cost out of his own pocket. After all, if it saved him his job, it would be worth it.

It didn't.

OoOoO

Randy stumbled out to the car with his friends, Quinn and Peter. "Alright guys, get in." He did his best to control the slight slur in his voice, and he was pretty sure it worked.

Quinn narrowed his eyes. "Dude, are, are you drunk? I thought you were the desiccated... desnigated driver?" His serious tone was ruined by the fact that he appeared to be looking over Randy's shoulder.

"Not hardly! Just had a glass, you know, to keep me awake." It might have been two glasses. Maybe. Anyways, Randy was a great driver, drunk or not. He'd had plenty of practice, not that he'd ever admit it. "Pete, you okay buddy?" The third member of their group began to snore. "I'll take that as a yes. Alright, Quinn, want me to drop you off at your apartment?"

His friend spluttered. "Are you nuts? If I tried to go back to campus like this, I'd get kicked out of the U. Nah man, you mind if I shower at your place? Don't want to smell like this when I go back." Randy just nodded. He was a nice guy like that.

He looked back down at his other friend. "You know where Pete wanted to get dropped off?" Quinn considered this question carefully, before shaking his head. "Alright, I'll just bring him back to my place. Makes things simpler, I only have to go home!" Quinn joined him in laughing for a moment. "Alright, let's go. You strap Pete in." Quinn grumbled a little at this, but he did as he was told. Or at least, he tried. He wasn't sure if he had slipped the buckle into the clasp, or into Pete's pants, and he didn't really want to know. Standing back up, he closed Pete's door with a whisper of a click, and stumbled his way over to the passenger seat.

Randy started up his car, and pulled out of the side street he'd parked on, a little unsteadily, but pretty much straight. As far as he could tell at least. He might have stretched the truth a little. In reality, he had probably had more like three... or four... or six glasses. Roundabout there anyways. But it was fine! He had a huge tolerance for alcohol. Ran in his family. Well, actually, his grandpa had died from drinking too much, but really, didn't that just prove his case? He was so in control of himself while drinking that he couldn't tell how drunk he was, and just kept going! That was probably how it went anyways.

The road in front of him seemed to waver, but Randy was good at this. He didn't let his hands drift one inch. His grip was like a steel trap, and nothing in the world could shake his it. It was a little disconcerting how the street in front of him seemed to drift back and forth though. That's it, he was definitely going to keep it at one or two glasses next time, this was freaky as shit.

"Wow, man, I must be more drunk than I thought. It looks like we're heading straight for that building." Quinn mumbled. Wait, what? For a brief moment, the world seemed to snap into focus. Time seemed to slow to a drip, and he could see that the car was aiming straight for a blue building. His brain seemed to want to etch this scene into his mind, probably just in case it was the last thing he saw. 'Showman Advertising' proclaimed a sign on the front. It was one story high, but it looked like it had a basement too. He could see his speedometer. 55 miles per hour. Wasn't this a 20 mile per hour zone? Yep, there was actually a sign right in front of the building he was aiming at. That's ironic. Or is it? He could never remember if he was using that word right. I mean, he probably could have paid more attention in English-

OoOoO

 ** _Author Note:_** I hope that I'm not boring people with these snippets of other people's perspectives? I dunno how relevant they are, I mean, who knows? It's probably some other advertising firm anyways.


	3. Overworld 1-3

1.3  
Overworld

A handful of plaster woke Greg up by landing on his face. Coughing and spluttering, he reached up to wipe it off of his face. After making sure that none of it had gotten into his eyes, he opened them fully to look around. What had happened? He had an awful headache, and the last thing he could remember was the three of them sitting around the computer, him at the keyboard, while the other two pointed out various flaws and tidbits. They had been laughing and groaning at the mistakes that they had made, when all of a sudden, it felt like an earthquake was happening. The scene around him was one of devastation, with supports, wood, concrete and metal blended together into an amalgam of materials. Still, regardless of what on earth had occurred, there was something more important.

"H-Hey. Daniel? Graham?" Greg managed to croak out. He coughed a bit, and put an arm on his chest. Something hurt there. Had he bruised a rib? It was when he attempted to stand that he noticed the bigger problem. A segment of a broken desk, perhaps even the one they had been sitting around before, was trapping his leg against the floor. The piece wasn't that large, and even _he_ probably could have lifted it. Sadly, it was trapped under a large chunk of concrete, which he most definitely _wouldn't_ be able shift. Also... he couldn't really feel that leg. That... that was pretty bad right?

He was shaken from his horrifying thoughts by a weak voice. "Greg? Is that you?" It was undoubtedly Daniel, but he couldn't see him. There was a fairly open space in the rubble, but it was pretty dark in here. The only light he could see was coming from the overturned computer that they had just been playing on. He couldn't believe that it still had power after all that happened, let alone survive the collapse relatively intact.

Greg called out into the emptiness. "Where are you? I can't see much down here. Are you okay?" Daniel sounded even more quiet than usual, but he didn't sound especially _injured,_ from what little Greg knew, which was, admittedly, mostly from video games and movie shows, and thus not entirely reliable.

The reply gave him some hope. "I'm pretty much in one piece, no idea how. I just gotta squeeze out from under this door. I'm pretty lucky it wedged up, instead of landing right on me. I think it was shielding me. How about you? Are you alright?" Greg heard some shifting in the rubble, and gingerly touched his chest again, wincing.

"I'm not so sure, man, I think something's wrong with my ribs, and I _know_ something's wrong with my leg. It's trapped under something, and I can't feel it." Now that he was more awake, he was becoming much more aware of all the various pains his body had collected. Leaning back, he groaned as an especially pointy piece of rubble dug into his spine. He grit his teeth and tried to sit back up, but his waist wasn't cooperating quite as well as it should have. "Do you know what happened?" He rasped, trying and failing to ignore the pointed object. A stray thought began to tug at his mind, but when he tried to focus on it, he couldn't remember what it had been about. Had it even been about anything? That wasn't a great sign.

"Okay, um, just hold tight and I'll try to make my way over to you. I-I can probably make some of this into some sort of stretcher? I just need to clear off enough space for a workbench or something first..." What? Had he just heard Daniel right? Greg heard some rustling and something being shifted out of the way. Another spike of pain crawled up his spine. How on earth could he get rid of that piece of rubble? The feeling in his head from before returned, and he tried to figure out what it meant. It felt like there was some sort of emptiness, not in his head, but somewhere near him. There were lots of them, actually. What on earth? Another jolting feeling of agony from the debris nearly tore him from the puzzle, and he just wished that it would _go away.  
_  
Suddenly, it did. With a quiet _oof_ he fell the extra inch backwards and groaned. What had just happened? The pain was fading from that spot on his back, and the object that had caused it couldn't be felt anymore. Did it get shifted to the side somehow? Greg hadn't been moving nearly enough to do that. So where had it... One of the empty spaces had been filled. It contained a jagged piece of cement, roughly 3 inches by 4. Greg sat in confusion for a minute, not exactly paying attention to the sounds of Daniel trying to find a path over to him. However, a new voice sounding across the room grabbed his attention.

"I'm here too, not that anyone cares." The voice was sullen, but familiar.

"Graham?" Daniel's motion had ceased. "Graham, where are you? Why didn't you answer earlier?" Daniel's tone was concerned.

Graham nearly snarled back. "I didn't want to ruin your conversation, distract you guys from what you care about." As angry as his voice was, there was an undercurrent to it that made Greg think that Graham was crying. "I know when I'm not wanted."

Daniel was quiet for a moment. "...How could you even say that? We've been friends for years, of course I care-"

" _Shut up!_ " Greg began to hear heavy steps across the rubble as Graham strode across his vision and back out of it, towards Daniel. He had brushed up against a fragment of the broken desk, the edge of which was jagged, dangerous. He'd slapped it out of the way. He was going to get hurt himself, what was he thinking? Graham continued, voice low, and raw. "If you _cared_ so much, then why have I been playing third wheel for the past month huh?"

"Graham, you _know_ that you're my best-" Danield gasped. "You-you're bleeding! How are you standing? You should lie down!"

Graham stopped moving. "No." He said, a strange tone leaking into his voice. "I'm not. I _was_ bleeding. I was bleeding out, right over there, and neither of you could _hear me._ You were too busy making sure that your _real_ best friend was fine, Daniel!" He was roaring by the end, drowning out Daniel's pleas that they were friends, and Greg heard a _thump._ Daniel went silent, but Graham wasn't done, "How could you have abandoned me so easily!? I protected you for _years_ of school!" The near screams were being replaced by sobs. "I thought- I thought we were _friends!_ " Greg was too horrified to speak while he heard Graham fall to his knees. He thought he had known the larger teen, but he never would have seen this coming. How had this come out of nowhere?

The silence was broken by a wet cough, and then Daniel spoke once more. Voice as quiet as it had ever been, but somehow as firm as he'd ever spoken at the same time. "Idiot. Of course we're friends, Why would... you even, _*cough*,_ ask..."

Graham wasn't crying anymore. "But... but then... you..." Graham couldn't finish any of the things he was trying to say, his throat tightening up every time. After a moment, he stopped speaking at all. It was like time had stopped in the pocket of air under the wreckage of a building, as the silence fell over it. Greg's mind was awhirl. Had... had he caused this somehow? If he had known that his actions on that first day back from winter break would lead to this somehow, he definitely would have walked away back then.

But at the same time... the last month had been one of the best of Greg's life. These two had become as close as brothers to him, talking games with Graham, hanging out with Daniel... It was unlike nearly anything he had ever experienced. Greg had pretty much had no friends since the third grade, when his family moved to Brockton Bay. Daniel had always been happier to see Greg than Graham had been, and now he knew the reason why... Graham was afraid that Greg had been trying to take his place. But still, for it to lead to this...?

Greg broke the spell of quiet. "You... you _killed_ him." He hadn't even realized he had spoken the words out loud, but as soon as they left his lips, Graham froze up, before standing. A jolt of fear went through Greg as the other boy turned towards him, and began to trudge forward.

"You..." His voice wasn't angry. It was full of despair. "If you hadn't come along..." He broke off into choking sobs, but lunged towards Greg all the same. Trapped as he was under the rubble, Greg could do nothing but raise his arms in an attempt to shield himself from attacks. Nearly passing out from the pain of Graham's initial imact alone, Greg covered his face with his arms. Graham's wild blows lacked the directness of a rational fighter, glancing off when they were at the wrong angle, and the occasional miss entirely as Greg tried to lean out of the way, but enough of them hit for Greg to cry out in agony. The pain was at an all time high, and it felt like it was rising at a steady rate, and Greg could hardly think, until-

 _Clarity._ The pain was still there, but distant, as though he was hearing about someone else's injuries. Was he getting brain damage? Or was this one of those moments where your life was supposed to flash before your eyes? He couldn't think of a way that he could get out of this. It wasn't like he had super powers...

Daniel, suddenly searching for the materials to assemble a work bench.

 _"I was bleeding out, right over there, and neither of you could hear me."_

The piece of rubble that disappeared.

Another moment of eternity stretched out in this strange agony-induced nirvana. _Well, I don't have any other ideas. Hope I wasn't just going crazy._ The world seemed to come back into focus, and the pain returned, full force. Biting down hard enough that he wasn't sure that he wasn't causing his teeth any damage, Greg managed to swing one of his bruised arms away from his body, and then he opened his hand.

A piece of pointed cement appeared in it, and he jammed the hand towards Graham's throat. The older boy's eyes grew huge, and the strikes slowed, before stopping entirely, Graham's hands were now around his own throat, though what he was attempting to do was beyond Greg. Graham sat backwards, heavily, and scrambled across the floor as he convulsed. Greg, spent, went limp, battered limbs splaying away from his torso, wheezing for breath. The edges of his vision began to darken, and the ceiling seemed to be bending inwards.

Greg's last thought before it all went dark; _Oh. I guess none of us were going to survive anyways. But... now two of us are murderers... maybe I shouldn't have fought back..._

OoOoO

 ** _Author Note:_** Anyone who decides this breaks their suspension of disbelief, look up Borderline Personality Disorder. I _did_ foreshadow this, and I hope that it doesn't make anyone too upset.  
There's going to be another short story post in the next few hours that should shed some _additional_ light on things.


	4. Overworld 1-A

**_Author Note:_** The following piece may hurt your head to read. It certainly hurt my head to write. Look at it sideways, maybe? (Not literally.)

1-A  
Overworld

It sat between the web straddling the three buds. The first host had been very close to what it needed, a little lost, aggressive, and growing ever more isolated over time. It would only be a matter of time until the moment of activation. Then the sub-host had appeared. At first, it had been annoyed with the creature, for bonding with the host. Potentially ruining all of its progress. It had quickly turned the situation around, however, capitalizing on the symbiosis between the two, turning it into a negative feedback loop. Effectively, its host had become a parasite. The process had extended the plan longer than was preferable, but the alternative was ruination, so the delay was acceptable.

The _third_ creature's invasion of the plan had nearly caused it to abandon it entirely and find a new host. However, its host's reaction to the newcomer proved promising. Perhaps this newest creature could be the catalyst, bringing the plan to its close sooner than would have been otherwise possible. It quickly made the third into a second sub-host, and delicately balanced the three buds from its shard between the three. The sub-hosts shouldn't be allowed to notice the process, else the plan could backfire. Carefully enhancing the jealousy that it hadn't even had to create, it subtly tweaked the host's brain chemistry, worsening an already present condition. The host was imbibing chemicals to alleviate it, but the amount would soon be insufficient for the malady.

When the three had been placed into a situation that could render them useless to the plan, it had to act quickly, reaching out of its boundaries, creating an area of relative stability for the upcoming encounter. It didn't dare act overtly enough that the Conglomerate might catch wind of its presence, but an action like this, only seen by three of the untouched hosts of this world, should be secure. It would only be keeping the host in any case, and it could devote its full attention to keeping the host from looking out of place to the Conglomerate. At least, until the time came.

The sub-hosts were given its gifts early, in order to incubate them for a time before their transfer. For the host, it waited until the creature was injured, fruitlessly attempting to reach out to the sub-hosts, and timed its gift perfectly for when despair became rage.

The host received the _Self.  
_  
The first sub-host received the _Instruction.  
_  
The second sub-host received the _Expanse_.

As planned, the host recovered just after the sub-hosts had made contact. By subtly flaring the host's rage at key moments, the encounter went exactly as planned. The first sub-host was disposed of, and the _Instruction_ was retrieved. The host's mind was not receptive to it at the moment, so it would hold it in reserve for now. Next, the second sub-host was fought. Rather than flaring the host's rage this time, it simply amplified it at a fixed rate. The finer touch was not necessary against this creature, as the host did not have the bond that it had held with the first sub-host.

Not long into the encounter, it realized its mistake.

It had taken the host's chemical supplement into account for all of its manipulations in the past, and it had... miscalculated, enhancing the host's rage further than wisdom would dictate. The host had become too frenzied, even if it survived this incident, it would take far more work than it was worth to repair the damage done. It held its frustration in check as it prepared to withdraw from the area as soon as its gifts were released from the hosts.

It was surprised to note that the _Self_ was released first. The second sub-host had defeated the host? Unforeseen. It inspected the sub-host more closely. The creature had bonded more thoroughly to the _Expanse_ than should have been possible in the time frame. The sub-host's mentality wasn't quite as well-suited for its purpose as the first host's had been, but... this presented it with a potentially faster path than withdrawing completely would.

It spent a moment deliberating on its choices, before deciding to risk the play. Time was short, it could never be sure when the Cycle might be ended, and it might not have another chance like this before then. Thus decided, it reentered the new host's bud, reshaping it with choice fragments of the original shard, and then discarding the empty shell. It pushed the gift of the _Self_ towards the host, and after a brief struggle, managed to cause it to reluctantly bond. Perhaps this wasn't the best decision after all. It pushed the _Instruction_ to the host as well, expecting a similar reaction.

It was pleasantly surprised to see that the host bonded easily to it. Perhaps it something to do with the connection between the sub-hosts? No matter. Now, it was time to consolidate, and focus on preventing any of the pieces of the Conglomerate from seeing anything wrong.

At least, until it no longer mattered.

OoOoO

 ** _Author Note:_** Confusing to read? Sorry. I had to get myself into a bit of an alien mind-set to write this one. If you can... somehow find any mistakes I made, please, tell me, and as always, please post a review for any comments or criticisms that you may have!


	5. Overworld 1-4

**_Author Note:_** Well, sorry about the radio silence for the past week. Got laid off right before a visit to Israel to see my parents, and I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going moving forward from that. Couldn't bring my normal writing computer with me, either, because Trump had to go offend Turkey or something, so there's increased danger when bringing electronics larger than smartphones on planes or something? Couldn't quite understand my brother's warnings, but I took his word for it. Still, managed to find some time on a computer over here, so there will hopefully be able to be one or two more updates while I'm here in Israel. But enough about me, the chapter awaits!

1.4  
Overworld

Greg couldn't remember waking up. One moment, there was an inky blackness that covered his mind, and the next, he was looking at a white ceiling. His vision swam a little before clearing up. Where was he? What had happened? The last thing he could remember, he and his friends had been testing out their game, and then... an earthquake happened? There had been some sort of crash, and then... a fight? Had he fought someone? He couldn't quite recall what had happened, but it was just on the edge of his mind, if he just tried to go over the things he _could_ remember, then he would surely be able to remember-

 _-a whirlwind of pain, Graham's screams, Daniel's crumpled form-_ _  
_  
Greg gasped as his mind was assaulted by the fractured memory, and instinctively cradled his head in his hands. He blotted out the memory, rejecting it and numbing the pain. While lost in his jumbled thoughts, he was suddenly dragged back to reality in the form of someone grabbing his hand.

"Greg? Are you alright honey? Oh, please be alright..." His mom? Was he in the hospital? He'd just been in a collapsed building, so he probably was. He'd broken his leg, and he probably had a ton of smaller injuries. He wasn't in pain right now though, they must have pumped him full of painkillers.

Raising his head from his hands, he glanced over to the source of the familiar voice. His mother was there, sitting in a chair besides his bed, clutching at his hand as though he would fall through the floor if she let go. He tried to reply, and coughed from his dry throat. Swallowing, he tried again. "Mom? This... this is a hospital, right? Where are Daniel and Graham? Are they okay?" As her face twisted in sorrow, he already knew the answer. They had all had a dream, one that had seemed to be getting closer and better each day. But now, it was gone.

After several hiccups that sounded almost like sobs, his mother managed to answer him. "Oh, Greg... the rescue workers tried... you-your friends..." Then, she began to cry in earnest sympathy. His mother hadn't known his friends for long, but she had taken quickly to the pair. He had never had many friends, and those friendships he had obtained never seemed to last. When he had finally found some friends that shared nearly every interest he had, it had been too good to be true.

Or at least, too good to last.

After a few moments, a cough from a third occupant of the room drew Greg's attention. The man in question wasn't very tall, probably only a few inches taller than him, and it took Greg a few moments to recognize him. Daniel's father, Mr. Tanner. He hadn't seen the man much, as his work kept him busy. I looked at him for a few seconds before he turned his head away and spoke. "The police didn't know you three were down there. It's well known in this part of the city that the firm is closed on weekends, so rescue workers weren't even dispatched until Mr Clive arrived to bring his son Graham some medication that the boy had forgotten. I don't know if things would have turned out differently if they had known. Your survival was a miracle in and of itself. The rubble around you barely missed your head." His voice had started out hollow, but as he spoke, despair began to creep into his tone. "Daniel wasn't quite so lucky. They told me that he was crushed under the debris." He had been pacing while he spoke, but upon finishing, he collapsed into another of the chairs in the room.

Greg blinked, and reached up to wipe his eyes, but his hand came away dry. Why wasn't he crying? What sort of person didn't even cry upon hearing of his friends' deaths? What was _wrong_ with him?

Another few minutes passed before Mr. Tanner spoke again. "...Daniel told you that he asked me for permission to use the lab, didn't he?" I glanced up to meet his eyes, but his hand was propping up his head and covering them. "He didn't. He took the key from my office at home, and all he had told me was that he was going to hang out with you two, just as he had been doing for the whole month." Mr. Tanner took a long breath, and let it out with a sigh. "That boy... why couldn't he have just asked?"

Those of us in the room sat in silence until visiting hours were over.

OoOoO

Greg was released from the hospital a few days later. His injuries had healed quickly over his stay, scabbing over before vanishing entirely. He hadn't mentioned that he was fairly certain that his leg had been broken because he couldn't remember when that happened, and there hadn't been any record of it in his diagnosis. Still, something felt off.

His mom drove him home and spent the rest of the day hovering over him, asking him what kind of food he wanted, whether he needed another blanket, fetching things so that he wouldn't have to get up. He finally got her to stop by going to bed early, though he spent an hour lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, before finally falling asleep. The next day, he managed to convince his mom that he would be fine at home while she was at work. She had protested at first, but reluctantly left for her job in the end. Finally alone, Greg wandered the house.

He sat in his room, in front of his TV, staring at the various game titles before finally packing up the games, putting each one into its own case and then placing them into a box, which he slid into his closet, placing his consoles back into their respective packaging as well. Games just didn't spark with him anymore, not after where they had led. He couldn't get excited about the next title in a series, and the thought of returning to his old habit of spending his spare time on his consoles had lost its appeal.

Having put the games and consoles away, he next padded over to his laptop, sinking into it slowly. Booting it up, he opened the browser and stared at his bookmarked websites. He began to remove the various gaming forums from the list, until there was only one website left. He looked at it for a bit, before clicking on it, opening up PHO.

Making his way to the Brockton Bay Happenings sub-forum, he scrolled through the articles. A new cape had been seen alongside Hookwolf, a woman with a metal cage over her head. The speculation on her seemed to think that she had been a member of one of the man's pit fighting rings, and had joined up with him when she got powers. Another article was a thread where people were discussing predictions on where the next Endbringer would strike. Another article-

He stopped. The article was about the collapse of a building near the PRT offices. He opened up the thread to read it in more detail.

 **Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in, xX_Void_Cowboy_Xx  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
You have 14 infractions and 37 warnings. You were last banned on December 7, 2010.

 **Topic: Building Collapse on 2nd South  
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Brockton Bay**

 **Bagrat** (Original Poster) (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)  
Posted on February 6, 2011:

Alright, so a building collapsed yesterday on 2nd South a little before noon. The building in question is Showman Advertising, one of the lesser known but still fairly succesful advertising agencies here in Brockton Bay.

The collapse was caused by a drunk driver hitting the building at over 50 miles per hour. Yes, I know, that street's speed limit is 20 mph. Crazy drunk. Of the three people in the car, only the driver survived. The guy in the back hadn't been wearing his seatbelt, apparently, and when the vehicle crashed, he was flung into the guy in the passenger seat. A tragic reminder of the importance of seatbelts.

Fortunately, Showman Advertising isn't open on weekends, so there weren't any workers in the building when it collapsed. Small mercy, I guess.

In any case, I'm saying it here so that people will stop throwing around crazy rumors. This was NOT a result of a cape fight. A drunk driver drove into a building. No capes involved in any way whatsoever.

EDIT: It would seem that I spoke a little too soon. I'm sorry to say that the building wasn't completely unoccupied. Apparently, the son of an employee at the building and two friends were using the basement computer lab for a school project or something. Of the three boys, only one survived. Our hearts go out to the families of these young men.

EDIT 2: Apparently, the collapse wasn't solely caused by the crash. I heard from one of the workers that analyzed the site that apparently there were some... problems, with the construction. Whoever constructed the building cut some corners, causing a bit of instability in the foundation. In addition, they discovered some water damage. Kinda scary that that building has been there for seven years. Coulda collapsed at any time, from what they told me.

 **(Showing Page 1 of 5)**

 **► bothad**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Wow. That driver sure is an idiot. Driving drunk is literally one of the most frowned upon things in the states. Now, he's going to have to live with the knowledge that he got two of his friends killed.

 **► Lo A Quest**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Yeah, that's terrible. I sure hope that that firm has insurance, because I doubt that the driver will be able to pay for the damages.

 **► Mock Moniker**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Disgusting. Doesn't that guy know what Designated Driver MEANS?

 **► DocRod**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
It's actually a bit worse than OP states. The building wasn't quite empty, there were three teens in the basement computer lab, one of whom was the son of an employee there. They were working on some sort of project for school there. Only one of the boys survived the collapse. Simply awful...

 **► Nimpo**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
DocRod Wait, seriously?! That's so sad! That driver deserves everything that's coming to him.

 **► ASmileADay**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Wow. I'm not normally a vindictive guy, but I gotta agree with Nimpo here. I hope that they slam that guy in jail for the rest of his life.

 **► AwfulArchitect**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Wait, the entire building collapsed when a car hit it? That doesn't really make sense. A car can definitely do a great deal of damage, but I can't quite understand how that level of destruction occurred. Are you SURE that there weren't any capes involved?

 **► Robby**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
I'm a little surprised that Void Cowboy hasn't shown up to explain how this is just another example of a secret society taking out a potential problem cape before they get their powers. XD

 **► Lolitup**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Robby ...Dude. Cowboy might be a little paranoid, but you're being a real insensitive bastard right now. Four people DIED in this.

 **► Robby**  
Replied on February 6, 2011:  
Lolitup You're right, sorry, I guess I hadn't really considered the severity of the incident. Won't happen again.

 **End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5**

Staring at the words on the page, his first instinct was to post on the thread himself, clearing up a few of the misconceptions that had cropped up while garnering some sympathy, but then he mentally berated himself. How could he even consider using the tragedy that killed his friends to try and gain attention? Nobody would believe him anyways. He closed the tab and shut down the laptop. Glancing around the room, he searched for something to occupy his attention. His eyes fell on his portfolio. The backpack he brought to the game testing hadn't been salvageable, but he hadn't brought everything he had drawn, as well as notes that they had written. Picking it up, he began to thumb through it, remembering all the talks he had had with the others on what he should draw. After reaching the end, he closed it once more and slipped it into the envelope. Graham and Daniel wouldn't have wanted this to destroy him. That would be a terrible way to remember them. They might be gone, but they had had a lot of great experiences together. He took the envelope and held it. He wanted to make sure that he always had it on hand. How to do that...

An echo of a memory came to him. An object sticking into his back, vanishing. An item appearing in a formerly empty hand. The portfolio vanished, and a presence arose in the back of his mind. All of the things that they had imagined, all of the ideas they had had... It was all there, on the edges of his thoughts.

Greg was conflicted. He'd always wanted to be a hero. Heroes were popular, they were basically celebrities. But no heroes had arrived that day. Daniel and Graham were gone. What had heroes done for them? Not even Panacea could raise the dead. He sat down on his bed, and thought.

When his mother returned home that evening, he told her that he would be returning to school the next day.

OoOoO

Greg regretted his decision. Slightly. School itself wasn't that bad. The assignments weren't that difficult, and the teachers were very understanding about the days he had missed. None of his classmates asked him questions about what had happened. No, what he hated was that nobody would acknowledge the two people that _weren't_ here today. Nobody would meet his eyes for very long, nobody mentioned that they were sorry for his loss. In History, his third class of the day, as well as the only class that he had shared with Daniel and Graham, the teacher announced a new seating chart. Two desks from the class had been moved to another class that needed them. It was as though his friends had never existed.

When lunch finally arrived, Greg didn't feel like eating. Instead he wandered the halls. Trudging through the math wing, going up the staircase to the Elective hallways. Lunch was half over when a voice stopped him. "Hey, Veder." Looking up and to the source of the voice, he saw a student whose name he didn't know, but he recognized the type. One of the skinheads, three of his friends leaning against a wall nearby, looking over to see who their friend was calling out to.

Greg was silent for a few seconds. "What." It sounded more like a statement than a question, but he just couldn't be bothered to make conversation. However, the skinhead didn't react to the tone. Ignoring the implicit disinterest in the exchange, he simply forged on.

"Is it true that Daniel and that Clive kid were gay? I always knew something was weird about that kid." The skinhead's tone was mocking, insulting. Greg stood there, trying to process the level of insensitivity to start this conversation. But at the Empire wannabe's next statement, his blood froze. "Those two were lucky they got offed before Hookwolf got 'em. Guy hates fags." Some of the other members of his group were open-mouthed.

"Hughes, man, that's too far." One of them said.

Hughes, as he was apparently called, looked uncomfortable, but he didn't back down. "Just telling it like it is. They're better off now, anyways." Greg began to step towards the taller boy, who took an aggressive stance. " Something wrong, Veder? Angry? What's a scrawny little-" He didn't see the punch to his gut in time to block it, and by the time it hit, it was too late. Greg tackled the bigger boy to the ground, and began to pummel him. Hughes's friends had to pull him off of the prone teen. After they let him go, they stood between him and Hughes, with panicked expressions, unsure if they should retaliate or if Hughes had deserved what he got.

Greg stood there, vibrating in place for a second, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of school.

When he showed back up the next day, he heard that Hughes was in the hospital with a broken jaw.

Nobody mentioned that Greg at all.


	6. Overworld 1-5

1.5  
Overworld

Greg stared at the pipe he held in his hands. Shifting his grip, he swung it through the air, back and forth. He couldn't have done this two weeks ago. This pipe might not be _that_ heavy, but to someone like Greg? It should have been a bit of an effort. Bringing it back up so he could look at it, he stared at it for a few more seconds before it disappeared into thin air. Taking note of the mental image of the pipe that showed up in the back of his head, he sat back down. He was in the garage, as he didn't want to be swinging anything heavy around inside the house. His mom wasn't home yet, still on shift at MedHall. Greg was taking advantage of her absence to try and feel out the limits of his powers.

There were two powers that he was sure of. The pocket dimension, which he hadn't been able to resist naming his 'Inventory', that he could put things into and pull them out. Then there was the Brute power, his fast healing and increased strength. He wasn't sure how strong he was now, but he definitely wasn't Alexandria strong, or even Aegis strong. He had tried, and failed, to punch a hole through the wall. In retrospect, he really shouldn't have tried to do that. The pain in his fist vanished pretty quickly though, and it hadn't even looked bruised. He wasn't certain, but he felt like he had a third power as well. When he was looking around the garage, his eyes falling on the various pieces of junk that had accrued over time, he kept getting little bursts of insight on how they could be fit together and shaped into different items. He would have said that this made him a tinker, if it weren't for the fact that all the things that he could make appeared to be... furniture. Granted, the majority of items lying around the garage were scraps of wood, something that his mom tended to gather throughout the summer in order to prepare for the winter months.

He didn't really want to use those, anyways, as his mom would definitely notice their absence. At least, if he used as many as he would need to put together a table. He began to pick up the random junk and move them to the side, searching for something else to use for ideas. Newspapers weren't useful, his old bike had flat tires and no chain, and the buckets of weed-killer that his mom had left here ever since she decided a garden wasn't worth it. Looking past those items, his eyes fell on a broken step ladder. They lit up an idea in his mind. Two, actually. First, he could put the pieces back together. One of the beams had snapped, rendering it useless, but that wasn't a real barrier. He wasn't sure how he could do it, but since all the pieces were there, he could make it whole again, somehow. His other option was intriguing. He could take it apart, and use the metal scraps for something else. Deciding that his mom wouldn't notice its disappearance, he went with the latter option. Highlighting the choice in his mind, he waited for the instructions on how to take it apart to appear, assuming that that was how the power would work.

Instead, to his surprise, the ladder fell apart, and he scrambled not to drop any of the pieces. Staring at the mess of metal in his hands, he looked back into the possibilities he could make. There were a few choices, but the most glaring among them was the step ladder, shiny and new once more. He could take things apart and put them back together, or make something new. That didn't sound nearly as useless as being a furniture tinker, like he had thought he was. Stashing the metal into his inventory, he put the garage back into a semblance of order, and walked back into the house. Once he was in his room, he turned back on his laptop and opened up a blank document. He labelled it, 'Cape Checklist', and began to type up some bullet points. Identity: Mask, Costume, Cape Name. Powers: Healing/Toughness, Enhanced Strength, Inventory. Tinker Power? Not very tough. Armor? Damage Output; Low. Weapons? Not very fast. Practice? Goals: He stared at the last bullet, mind blank. What did he want? He didn't want to join the Wards, not yet, at least. The Wards were in the awkward half-place of Super Heroes and children. From what he'd read, they were mainly supposed to patrol the safer areas of the city, show up at events, or schools, and tell people to read books, not do drugs, not drink, and not become villains if they got powers. Important things, probably, but not something Greg wanted to do himself. The Protectorate, on the other hand, was exactly what he wanted. They brought the fight to the Villains when they could, and protected the people when they couldn't. Here in Brockton Bay it was a bit worse than usual, mostly because of the Empire. The Empire had a massive cape roster, larger than the local Protectorate and Wards team combined, if only barely. When you add in New Wave then things looked a bit more even, but then again, the Empire weren't the only villains in the bay. When they city had people like Lung, any large scale fighting had to be avoided if possible, or the situation could explode.

Not that Greg could pretend that his motives were pure. There _was_ something that he wanted that wasn't, technically, heroic. He wanted revenge, or in more positive terms, justice.

According to the thread on the collapse, the building had been demolished so thoroughly due to some shortcuts and errors that had occurred while it was being built. A little research had unearthed the company responsible, Paulson Construction. They were still around in Brockton Bay, in fact, they had expanded. There were several sites in the city where the company stored its materials, and they were always seen at work, building homes, or repaving roads and sidewalks.

Greg needed materials to get to work testing his powers. Now where was he going to get _those?_

OoOoO

Greg and his mom had just finished dinner. His mom began to do the dishes while Greg cleaned off the table. Once he had smoothed out the tablecloth, he made an announcement. "I think I'm going to go for a walk. I've been feeling a little restless, need to burn some energy."

Teresa Veder looked up from the sink. "Oh, umm, are you sure? It's getting pretty dark out. Wouldn't you rather put that off until tomorrow...?" She asked hopefully.

Greg shook his head. "Nah, I'd rather get it done tonight. I was thinking about taking up running, you know. Gaming just hasn't been fun, recently."

His mom winced, sympathy fighting with worry. "Oh." She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. "Are you sure that you'll be safe? The streets can be dangerous at night."

"Don't worry, I'll stick to the safer areas. I just can't stay cooped up for much longer." While saying this, he was walking towards the front door.

As he opened it, he heard his mom call out one final phrase. "Stay safe, and come back soon!" He gave a vague sign of agreement before setting off down the street.

Over the past few days, he had been watching one of the supply yards for Paulson Construction, learning the layout of where the various supplies were, and noting the security measures. He'd even spent two of the evenings where his mom had been having a late shift at work learning of the security measures that were employed, where all the cameras could see, and where the guards were posted. The main things he learned that would help him here were as follows. First, the guards were posted at choke points, such as the entrances to the yard, or the mouth of the path to the storage sheds. This was a smart strategy, as anyone that wanted to steal something from the place would have to bring a way to haul the materials, and the only places that cars could be brought through were the entrances.

Unless, of course, the thief was a single person, who could carry a great deal of things without looking like it. His plan was to get into the sheds through a small gap in the fencing, too small for a grown man, but just large enough for a scrawny teen like him. Once in the yard, he could get into the sheds by using his power to remove one of the lower windows, gather as many of the materials as he could, and then replace the window and leave. There was a second part of the plan as well, to reduce the odds of anyone identifying him. Once he was a block away from the yard, he darted into an alleyway and pulled something out of his inventory.

A red and black sweatshirt. Winslow might not let students walk around with gang symbols out in the open, but that didn't stop the various gang aligned teens from wearing the colors of their respective side. Hughes might wonder where his sweatshirt had vanished to, but really, it was his own fault for not locking his locker. Wrinkling his nose, Greg slid the garment over his head. It may not smell great, but if he was seen, it should throw his pursuers on the wrong track for where to look. He made his way stealthily over to the point of entry. He paused several times as cars passed, making sure to walk casually, or at least, how he thought was casually, as the car headlights passed over him. Once the vehicle was out of sight, he would begin to creep along once more. At the fence, he scrambled his way underneath and put a hand on his chosen window, drawing it in. He clambered over the wall and through the square hole where the window had been, and looked around. Dozens upon dozens of planks of wood were arranged throughout the shed, massive piles of the things, in various sizes. After this shed, he was going to sneak into one of the metalwork storage rooms as well, which should give him all the supplies he would need for a good long while.

Suddenly, he froze. Crap, he could see the guard that was near the sheds through the door window, which meant the man might be able to see him in turn. Holding very, very still, he peered at the man, trying to determine if he was caught before he had even began. The man's flashlight was out, but it wasn't pointed at the shed, in fact, it was pointing at something near the guard. Something in his hands?

Oh. The guy was reading a book while he was supposed to be on guard. He was probably not going to be having a great day tomorrow. Placing a hand on the first pile, Greg pulled the first plank into his inventory. Then another, and another. As he got into the rhythm of it, quietly creeping along the floor of the shed, the amount of wood in the shed fell drastically, until there were only a few stacks of the shortest planks left. Greg was about to reach towards the top of the next pile, when suddenly light shone through the window on the door.

"Is someone in there? Whoever you are, come out with your hands up! The police are on there way, so make things easy for yourself." The voice wasn't entirely confident, but then again, who needs confidence when you've got a handgun in one hand, and a light in the other? Greg spun around and dashed for the window. He wasn't going to have time to put the glass back, but that didn't really matter if he was already caught. Apparently, metal was not something he would be getting today. Or probably any time soon, either, as they would definitely ramp up their security after tonight.

As he climbed through the missing window once more, Greg heard the guard shout again. "Hey, what the- Maurice, cut him off, he got in through one of the windows!" Time for him to speed things up even more. Greg probably wouldn't be able to shimmy under the fence fast enough, so he decided that he'd have to climb over. The fence was barbed wire, but he knew that he could shrug scratches off in short order. Still, this was going to be painful. Gripping the spiky wires, he began to pull himself up, wincing as they dug into my palms. Quickly reaching the top, he put one leg over the fence and prepared to jump down. Then, something slammed into his back, and he fell, a large section of the sweatshirt catching on the fence and tearing off.

A lance of pain shot through his chest, and he put a hand on the wound before looking down. There was a hole in the sweatshirt, just under his heart. Had he just been shot? Fighting to stand, he made it to his feet and began to run. He heard the sounds of one of the gate entrances being opened, and what he could only assume was one of the guards starting up a motorcycle. Damn it, this was going downhill fast. Hobbling towards an alleyway, he started to pick up speed as the pain ebbed. He could regenerate from gunshot wounds, apparently. Good to know. Sprinting down the alley, he turned down a narrow gap and slid through. Coming out onto another street, he began to walk briskly as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. Coming up on the next alley, he tossed the sweatshirt into one of the dumpsters before he dashed across the street. He could hear the motorcycle coming this way, and he ran down the alley once more. Going around another dumpster, though this one was definitely not still being picked up by the garbage men, based on its condition. There was a dead end. Glancing around, he debated hiding in the dumpster when he heard a voice.

"I think I saw someone running into this alley, it might have been that Empire guy. Maurice, you're sure you got him?" There was a murmured response. Greg looked up, and spotted a fire escape. It was a good eight feet off the ground. Not too confident, Greg leaped as high as he could towards it. He was surprised when he passed the bottom rung and nearly hit the fourth rung up. Panicking, he grabbed some bars and tried not to fall from his unexpected vantage. He could jump really high now? Sweet! The guard's voice rang out again. "Did you hear that? I think he might be back there, by the dumpster." Greg clambered higher, and jumped onto the roof, before ducking down.

He heard angry whispering as the guards searched the alley. The dumpster lid was lifted, and someone kicked over a pile of bricks. "Damn it, it must have been a cat. Reggie's gonna have our heads!" Greg heard hurried footsteps and then the motorcycle took off again. Finally letting out a breath that he wasn't sure how long he'd been holding, Greg relaxed slightly. Looking at his watch, he took note of how long he had been out 'running'. 40 minutes? It felt like hours! He began to creep in the general direction of his house, planning on jumping roofs as much as he could on the way, rather than making his way on the ground. Five minutes later, he was walking up the street to his house, before he stopped.

He put a finger through the hole in his shirt, while tracing the part of his chest that had definitely been an open wound earlier. There wasn't even any blood. He didn't want to have to explain the hole in his shirt to his mom. Opening the front door, he shouted out. "I'm back! I'm gonna go up to my room real quick, I, uh, got a hole in my shirt when I," Pausing for a moment, he said the first thing that came to his mind. "Ran into a mailbox. Er, yeah." He kicked himself mentally. "Anyways, I'm gonna go change for bed. Night mom!" Dashing up the stairs before she could come out of the living room to see him, he burst into his room and locked the door behind him.

Plopping facedown onto his bed, he considered his haul. Over a hundred planks of wood, ranging between 12 and 6 feet, as well as the one 4 footer that he'd had his hand on when the guards noticed him. He didn't get any of the metal parts he had wanted, which would limit him to solely wooden things. Hopefully he could make something other than just furniture with this. Still, he'd gotten back home safely, so his Hero career was off to a good start! Mostly, at least. He was technically a criminal based on his actions. But Paulson Construction owed _something_ for what they let happen to his friends. Their lives had been worth more than this wood, but it was a start. Daniel and Graham, wherever they were, Heaven, Hell, Nirvana or whatever, he hoped that they were going to be watching what would happen next.

He was going to change the world.


	7. Overworld 1-6

1.6  
Overworld

Greg was deep in thought. His power seemed to be geared towards building things, with it's construction based tinkering designs. Add that to the massive storage capacity, and it made a pretty clear picture. The regeneration and enhanced strength didn't _seem_ to fit, but he supposed that it would come in handy for making things. He definitely wasn't complaining, anyways. Still, building things wouldn't be much use if he had to hide everything from his mom. Therefore, he would need some sort of base of operations. Somewhere that people wouldn't stumble onto him, that he could get to and from freely, and was large enough for him to make anything he might need to make.

Greg had been following the cape scene for a good long while now, ever since he was 11 years old, at least. Because of this, he knew that capes that set up shop in the boat graveyard never lasted more than a month before either the Protectorate or a gang sweep found them. A few years back, there had been a tinker that had started to harvest metal from the boats for his projects. It probably would have turned out alright for him if he hadn't decided to start building something right then and there. The Empire had come around while he was busy, and he... didn't fit their profile. The man had lived, but the Protectorate had to bring him to Panacea for healing. Nobody really knew what happened to him after that, but no new Protectorate or Ward tinker had popped up in the next few months, so the most likely outcome was that he had left the city. Anyways, the point was that the Graveyard wouldn't be a good spot for him to choose. He should be able to get some metal there, though. His power was discrete and made transporting the materials trivial, as long as he could find or break off pieces in small enough chunks.

One of the next obvious places for a hideout would be an abandoned warehouse in the Docks. Greg had been searching for one over the past few days, and he'd learned that that was probably something that cape fiction had made up. First of all, there were barely any warehouses that could qualify as 'abandoned'. Even the ones that weren't actively occupied usually had a lot of things stored in them, which wouldn't leave much space for tinkering, and he'd have to worry constantly about the owners fetching something out of storage. Second, the few that looked like they truly _were_ abandoned had already attracted residents in the form of the homeless, and possibly a drug lab or two. All in all, they weren't viable locations for him to take for his own, though he did mark down the locations of the drug labs. Once he was prepared, he might try to take those down as one of his first acts of Heroism.

He wracked his brain, trying to figure out where he could set up. Out of desperation, he had even tried to research if the sewers would be a possible choice, only to learn that in most cities, sewers were _not_ the incredibly spacious series of tunnels that video games had taught him they were. Which meant that going underground was out-

Wait. Actually, he might still be able to go underground. In fact, this might be even better for him, because if he had chosen to set up in a place underground that _other_ people knew existed, he'd run into the same problem he would have had in the storage warehouses. It would take more work, but maybe he could use his power to dig some sort of tunnel, storing the dirt into his inventory? It was a Saturday morning, and his mom was at work. There was no better time to test this than now. Heaving himself off his bed, he made his way downstairs and outside, moving towards the shed in the backyard. A short search revealed a shovel, and holding it just felt _right._ Was this one of the things his power was meant for? He hoped so. He shifted things in the shed out of his way until he was in the back corner of the shed, a spot that was mostly out of view from the front of the shed, and he put the tip of the shovel into the earth, and he began to dig.

It didn't take Greg very long to dig down to a point where the earth was suddenly a great deal harder. After spending a futile ten minutes trying to break up a section of the ground and only chipping off a small fragment, he gave up on the endeavor and began to expand his hole at the sides. In short order, he had a subterranean room, about six feet in height, giving Greg a bit of leeway between his head and the ceiling. The room wasn't incredibly wide, only about ten feet across. Now that he had a small hideaway, he was going to go figure out what he could do about the rather shallow depth that he had been forced to stop at. Did he need a better shovel? Some other implement? Jumping out of the hole, he covered the pit in some of the planks from his inventory.

A short internet search later, he learned about Bedrock. The usual method of getting through it seemed to involve drilling, but that wasn't exactly something he had the power to do at the moment. Until he had some better digging equipment, he would just have to deal with his current setup. Returning to the back yard, he entered the shed and dropped back into his workshop. Scanning through his mental schematics, he quickly settled on something his power referred to as the "Workbench". Other than that, he could make basic furniture, chairs, tables, benches. Maybe the workbench was a sort of stepping stone workstation, that would let him proceed to making better tools, or even some weapons? Well, only one way to find out.

Watching the workbench assemble itself out of the planks was fascinating, if impossible to describe. Before Greg's eyes, the wood seemed to flow around each other, bending unnaturally before growing rigid, until there was a simplistic bench. As soon as it finished, a variety of new schematics appeared in his mental list. More furniture, fences, doors, and... a wooden hammer and sword. Wooden armor? A wooden sword didn't sound incredibly useful, and neither did wooden armor, but the sheer fact that they were on the list implied that he could make weapons and armor out of better materials if he could get them. He could also make an anvil out of the pieces of the stepladder. Perfect! He would probably need one to shape metal into weapons. All of this seemed really familiar, had he played a game with mechanics like this once...?

He shook his head. That was going to bother him for a while. He made the anvil and the wooden hammer, deciding that it would probably be a pretty good non-lethal weapon that he could use in the meantime, until he got some better weapons to use on the more physical threats, like Mush, or Hookwolf. Oh god, what if he had to fight Hookwolf at some point? He should probably avoid doing anything to gather any unsavoury attention from the Empire for a while, and the ABB... Someday, he might feel like he could risk Lung's ire. Maybe. Which left the Merchants. Still, before he tried to take on _any_ of the gangs, he should keep preparing. He was out of metal, so his anvil was kinda sitting useless for now. A wooden hammer is fine and dandy, but he really needed something better. The best way to get anything like that would be a trip to the ship graveyard. Pulling the anvil and workbench into his inventory, he jumped back out of the hole.

He'd have to go grab some scrap metal from the wrecks, all he needed to do was make sure that he didn't out himself as a cape in the process.

OoOoO

An hour and some bus rides later, Greg walked towards one of the larger, intact wrecks in the boat graveyard. A lot of the ships were in bad enough condition that they were rather full of water, and he didn't fancy a swim. Circling it, he wondered how he could best get in. There was a broken window about halfway up on one of the sides, and it wasn't too far from the pier he was standing on. He could probably make that jump, based on what he was pretty sure he was capable of. He just needed to make sure that nobody was watching him. Attempting to nonchalantly turn his head about, scanning the area about him, he couldn't see any people around. Pretty much all of the shops around here faced away from the boats anyways, since they wouldn't get much traffic from this side. Thus assured, he braced his feet, and crouched slightly, before uncoiling like a spring.

He hit the side of the boat a few feet under the window, and scrabbled to find purchase in the hull. Then he fell into the water below. Pulling himself back onto the pier, he glared up at the hole above, seething a little. Now he was all wet. Shaking his hands off a little, he considered the situation. What could he make from what he had on him. Scanning the list of schematics, he came upon one labelled 'Wooden Platform'. He didn't have some way of stabbing it into the boat, so he couldn't see how it would work for his purposes. He should still make one, though, and see if he can use it on some lower gash in the boat, assuming he could find one. A platform assembled in his hand and the necessary wood vanished from his inventory. Eyeing the boat with an appraising gaze, he tried to figure where he could put the platform. Trying to envision a way to orient the object that would let it get some purchase, he concentrated on the platform while staring at a potential placement.

Suddenly, the platform vanished from his hands, appearing on the boat's side. Looking at the slab of wood with disbelief, he glanced around again, making sure nobody had seen. Then he hopped over onto the platform. Shifting his weight a little, he tried to test whether it would break off if he tried to jump. It sat firm, and he looked closer at what could be connecting it to the boat.

As far as he could tell, there _wasn't_ anything holding them together. It was just... there. Scratching his head, he stared at it for a little bit longer before shrugging his shoulders. Powers were weird. Forming another platform, he placed it a little higher and a bit off to the side, before jumping to that one next. From there, it was a simple jump to make it through the broken window, and he came up from the crouch he had landed in to look around the deck of the boat. There were a few loose slabs of relatively small sections of the hull, but he couldn't get them to budge in any direction when he tried to snap them off. Giving up after a few futile minutes of effort, he glanced around again. There wasn't anything he could simply take up here. Maybe he should try to go down a floor. Moving over to a rather gaping hole in the deck, he peered down into it. It was a good thing it was still bright outside, he wouldn't want to try and make his way around down there at night. Dropping down, he began to search the ship's interior.

He had much better luck in the second floor of the ship than the deck. Various pieces of equipment that he disassembled with his power, and several pieces of what he assumed was the hole in the deck. What on earth had made that? A cape fight? In any case, when he jumped back up to the deck from that floor, he had obtained a fair amount of metal. Now, he just had to get back home so that he could get to work. Hopping down onto his platforms, he took them with him before he left. Beginning his walk home, he grinned, already planning out his first patrol once he had some armor.

OoOoO

Author Note: Argh. I don't know how much I like this chapter. Please leave some reviews with feedback, I might come back and make some changes later.


	8. Overworld 1-7

1.7  
Overworld

Greg growled, kicking the iron chest-piece in front of him. He would been jumping around holding his foot right now, but the pain vanished near instantly so he just stood in place. He'd gotten home from the boat graveyard yesterday and made himself some Iron Armor, but held off on trying it on due to his mom getting home from work. Today was a Sunday, and his mom had gone off to visit with some friends from work, or something. In any case, this resulted in Greg having some free time in which to experiment with his powers, and possibly go out for an actual Heroing excursion. But first... He had to figure out how to put on the damn armor! Just like anything else he made with his power, the process wasn't something he could direct. The resulting armor looked as though it had been tailored for Greg exactly. It would be fairly form fitting, no extra space for him to rattle around inside if he took a heavy hit.

It was such a good fit, in fact, that he couldn't fit his head through the hole for his neck. He had done a bit of research, and learned some interesting facts. In the medieval times, apparently most knights or what have you would let squires assemble the armor around them. The actual plate armor wasn't excessive, there were a few plates of metal in enough areas for the combatants to try and guide blows to only hit them in places that could take the hit. The rest of the armor was mostly chain-mail sleeve looking things that connected the plates. Also, it looked pretty uncomfortable.

Greg's armor wasn't quite like that at all. The Helmet was a slab of metal, and it weighed a _ton._ Greg could manage it, but it made his head feel pretty unbalanced, and he didn't relish the idea of practicing wearing it enough to feel comfortable wearing it into a fight. The chest-plate and leggings, however... They didn't work. At all. As far as he could tell, they were solid slabs of metal. There were no joints, hinges, or any sort of give that would let him move his arms or legs. On top of that, they were both _absurdly_ heavy, to the point where he wasn't sure he would have been able to move at all if he combined their weight with the helmet's and tried to lift them. There wasn't a way to open either of them, so he couldn't put them on. He simply wouldn't fit through the sections intended for the skinnier parts of him. He couldn't help but wonder if there were many other capes that had problems like this. He drew all the pieces back into his inventory in disgust. Why on earth would his power let him make armor that he couldn't wear? Sliding them on wouldn't work, what was he supposed to do, teleport them into place?

Wait. Maybe that _was_ what he was supposed to do. Thinking back, wasn't that exactly what the platform at the shipyard did? To all appearances, it had simply teleported from one point to the other. Looking down at himself, he focused on the armor in his inventory, and imagined it on himself.

Suddenly, it was. Stumbling at his sudden change of attire, he braced himself on his workbench, before furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. They weren't the stiff metal he had thought they were anymore. Swinging his arm back and forth from the elbow, he had to admit that they were actually incredibly flexible. Most medieval armors only allowed their wearer to make very limited movement, mobility being sacrificed for defense. In truth, the armor felt more like a bodysuit of solid metal. It was a bit cold, but he didn't really care about that. It didn't feel quite as heavy as he had thought it was either. He shook his head. "Powers." He said in exasperation.

Still, since he had managed to figure out his armor, and it didn't seem like he'd need much practice to move around in it comfortably, he decided that it was definitely _very_ possible for him to go out in costume today. He didn't really feel any need to wait any longer, after all, how could he possibly be more prepared? As far as he knew, this was about as good as armor could get. Better, probably. He just needed to make himself a better weapon than the wooden hammer, in case he ran into somebody scary. He didn't think he would be seeing anyone like Hookwolf or Lung today, since he was heading into the Merchants' territory.

After all, he already knew where they had a drug lab.

OoOoO

He had his armor back in his inventory. Somehow, he felt like it would be conspicuous if he got onto the bus wearing it. He could probably have just roof-hopped his way there, but thinking about doing that in the middle of the day made him feel uncomfortable. Instead, he would wait until he was about a block away, before darting into an alley to change. As far as he could tell, the armor had exactly zero impact on his mobility, neither slowing his running pace or inhibiting his ability to jump. Getting off the bus after paying the driver, he looked around at the area around him. This part of town wasn't actually considered that dangerous. He wouldn't have expected to find most _any_ Merchant operations here, let alone drug production. To be honest, it was only considered Merchant territory because none of the other gangs wanted it. There weren't any residential areas that the Empire would care about, and the few people that scraped out a living here weren't Asian, so Lung wasn't interested.

He looked around before strolling into the alleyway, but didn't spot any signs of life, other than a few crows fighting over some sort of litter down the street. Focusing on his armor, it appeared on him. Greg took a deep breath. This was it. From this point on, he was officially a hero! There was a minor blip in his beginning actions, when he considered what he had done to Paulson Construction, but he squashed any guilt that tried to arise. They owed him that and more, for what their negligence had cost. They wouldn't connect the thief to him anyways, as he'd only stolen wood. It was actually to his advantage that they'd interrupted him before he'd made it to a metal storage shed. Plausible deniability, at least.

He crouched slightly, out of habit. He didn't really need to, he'd found. He could jump just about as high no matter how he prepared himself beforehand. Weird, but whatever. He had to catch the edge of the roof with his hands and heave himself over, but he'd still made it up in one jump. Rolling into a crouch, he stealthily made his way over to the other side of the roof. Staring into the building that he was pretty sure he'd seen some of the Merchant grunts assembling bags of what he could only assume was cocaine, he once again spotted a variety of people hard at work at their nefarious task. He grinned to himself. They wouldn't be doing this for much longer, at least! He braced himself, trying to gauge how he should enter the building, and then he spotted a hole in the roof. It had probably been a skylight at some point, but now it was missing half of the windows. No wonder the warehouse was abandoned, it had probably been flooded a few times. Well, it would serve his purposes just fine. He carefully leaped across the gap between the two buildings, and looked down through the hole, making sure he wouldn't land on anyone in his entry. After a few moments of calculation, he made his move.

Hitting the floor of the warehouse with a heavy _thud,_ Greg pulled his wooden hammer out of his inventory. After a moment of panic when he realized he hadn't thought up what he was going to _say,_ he went with his gut. "This lab is now _closed._ Anyone wanna dispute that?" Good, good, that actually sounded kinda heroic! Sorta.

The response to his statement wasn't quite what he had expected. In his mind, he had imagined some sort of rush, where some of the workers would try to club him over the head or something, or shoot him. Instead, everyone he could see fell to the ground immediately, except for one guy who booked it out the door. He almost wanted to chase the guy, but Greg repressed the urge. He looked around in satisfaction. Was he just that intimidating? Apparently! His satisfaction ebbed slightly as he got a good look at the people around. They didn't really fit the profile that he had envisioned. Instead of the burly thugs he thought the Merchants made use of, they just looked like... people. Poor people, probably homeless. There were a lot of women, too. The clothes these people wore were ragged, the men unshaven and unkempt, and everyone around Greg could probably use a shower.

This didn't really make sense. These people didn't look evil, or brutish. They looked like the world had stepped on them. He needed to learn a bit more. "You." He pointed at an older looking man, at least in his sixties. "I need some answers. You can stand up, all of you, but don't make any sudden moves."

As the crowd timidly rose to their feet, the man Greg had chosen looked at him warily, like a starving animal. "Wh-whut do you wanna know, sir?" His voice was tremulous, and Greg felt a stab of guilt. The man swallowed. "If yer lookin' for where summa the other labs are, I dunno. Only the bosses know."

Greg waved the statement off. "I'm not interested in that, I'm interested in you. All of you. Why... why are you here? Working for the Merchants? You can't possibly think this stuff is good for anyone." Greg was a combination of angry and confused, mostly the latter. What could they say that could _possibly_ excuse this?

The old man stared at Greg for a moment, a worried look on his face as he began to wring his hands. "Not much've a choice sir. A man's gotta eat, and workin' fer the Merchies puts a meal in ya erry-day. Nobody else got much've a use for an old man what didn't even graduate High school." The second statement had a bitter edge to it. Looking around at the other workers, Greg could imagine similar stories behind each of them, life's hardships left their marks, on their faces, their state of dress, but most of all in the way they stood. As though they'd been broken a long time since, and they only kept going out of momentum. If he called the police and got these people arrested, he'd just be continuing the cycle of grinding these people into the dirt. Greg... didn't want to do that. He didn't even think he _could_ do that now. But he couldn't just walk away, there _had_ to be a way to help these people. Heroes could help in ways other than just fighting, couldn't they? Greg had a power that could help, too. It wouldn't put food on their tables, but he could put a roof over their heads, at least get them off of the street. Surely that would help, wouldn't it?

He sighed, and spoke again in a tired voice. "You can all relax. I'm not going to arrest anyone, that won't help anything. I need to figure this out. How can I help you guys?" The wariness and disbelief on their faces was almost heartbreaking. God, he had been prepared to _beat these people up?_ That was awful. Greg watched as the people gathered into little groups and began to whisper to each other. After a few minutes of discussion, the old man was nudged forward by a few of the others, apparently having been elected spokesman for having already talked to Greg. The man swallowed again, and gave a huge, rasping coughed before beginning.

"Food and shelter's all we really need, sir. Can't see much of a way for you to help with that, though we thank you kindly fer the offer." He bowed nervously, as though afraid I'd lash out at the mild rejection.

Greg replied haltingly. "Not... necessarily. I'm not too sure what I can do about food, but my power's pretty good at building things. I could probably build a decent shelter, at least. I just need something to make it out of..." Looking around him, Greg's eyes were drawn to the walls of the warehouse. The building had definitely been in better shape once, but time and neglect had left their mark. The walls had more than a few holes in them, enough that a good breeze probably went right through. With the state the ceiling was in, they didn't have much protection from both rain and heat. All in all, the conditions were terrible. He could definitely do better than that, especially if he took the warehouse apart for the materials. There was probably a tool he could make that would help him demolish it. "Do any of you know who owns this building? I could replace it, rebuild it better." Greg addressed the crowd as a whole, unsure if any of them would even know. Did the people who owned it even care anymore?

A voice rang out from behind him. "That'd be me, shitstain." Greg spun around to look at the source of the words. A spindly black man in a blue costume that covered the top half of his face, leaving his horrible teeth visible in a wide grin. "What the fuck wazzat about fixin' up my buildings?" Behind him stood a hulking figure encased in steaming machinery.

Greg stiffened. Crap, Skidmark and Trainwreck. He might get that fight after all...


	9. Overworld 1-8

1.8  
Overworld

Greg spun to face the two capes, falling into a fighting stance, hammer gripped tightly in both of his hands. Damnit, Skidmark and Trainwreck, how did he not notice them arriving? If they'd attacked him instead of speaking... Fighting them wasn't a good option, Trainwreck was a heavier hitter than he was, and with Skidmark backing him up, well, it wasn't a fight that made him optimistic. He waited for one of the Merchant capes to make the first move, while scanning his surroundings for an escape route. His choices weren't good, the ceiling was too high for him to jump back out of the hole he'd entered through, and Skidmark and Trainwreck had entered through the warehouse entrance. Maybe he could try and break through one of the walls? Based on his bulk, Trainwreck probably couldn't run that quickly, so if Greg could just make it outside, he should be able to get away. Tensing up, Greg gauged some of the walls, checking for a place that looked less durable than its surroundings.

Skidmark interjected through Greg's line of thought. "Ha! Settle down, Asswipe. We're all civilized here, ain't we?" He laughed, a terrible choking wheeze. "I'm not gonna fuckin' hurtcha, long as you don't smack around one of my boys. Now, what wazzat about some repairs?" He folded his arms, looking impatient. Trainwreck shifted behind him, and the hairs on the back of Greg's neck began to rise. The situation wasn't good. Time for him to buy some time and try to think up a plan.

"...I had offered to rebuild this place, get it into better shape. I don't approve of drugs though, so I won't do anything to help you or them with that." No ideas were forthcoming, so he had to draw his line in the sand. Maybe he'd get a better opportunity if a fight actually started. Try to get Trainwreck to follow him through a narrow space maybe, and try to get around him?

"Approve?" Skidmark laughed again, this time even more uproariously than before. "Nobody fuckin' does, and that's a shitflinging shame innit? All of those high'n'mighty folk in the damn government spreadin' their views on drugs. You think a guy that got bitch slapped by life cares if takin' drugs might mean he doesn't make it to fuckin' sixty? It takes the scrotekickin' edge off of the world, they do, I know that for sure. But I don't care about that right now. You can rebuild this place. What wouldja need to do that?" Skidmark leered slightly, his teeth somehow managing to look _worse_. "I know what you're thinkin'. 'Why should I help ole Skids with anything? He's a villain!' And don't get me wrong, I am. But I'm _also_ a businessman, see? If you ain't lyin', this could be a fuckin' great opportunity, for you, me, and every shitstomped sod in the Docks."

Greg's brain stalled, before he understood what he had just heard. "Wait, what? You want me to work for you? But I'm a hero!" Greg was trying to come up with more to add to his argument, but it all came back to that singular point.

Skidmark laughed again. God, that sound was grating on Greg's ears. "You say that like you can't do both, goatfucker! Dependin' on how this goes, the druggie biz might have just gotten a hell of a lot less profitable, at least, compared to some possible alternatives." He eyed Greg speculatively. "O'Course, I'm not making any promises now. First, I want a fuckin' demonstration. Here's my offer, and don't think I'm some pantyass negotiator, this is take it or leave it. This buildin'," He said, waving his arms around, as though trying to encompass the room, "will be a test case. Do your thing, whatever the fuck that is. If you can do what you say, then we can talk about some future dealings. Aight?" Skidmark didn't put out a hand for a handshake, which was good, because Greg wouldn't have touched him with a ten foot pole. Instead, he folded his spindly arms and looked at Greg expectantly.

Did he want to do this? This was Skidmark, one of the most despicable people in Brockton Bay. The Merchants had been ruining peoples' lives for years, profiting from the misery of the downtrodden. If Greg did go along with this, what would the consequences be? He couldn't know. On the other hand... The city had been going to hell for decades, and he'd just seen firsthand that the Merchants might not be so much a _cause_ of the city's problems so much as an effect. If people fell into hard times and couldn't escape, they might well get slotted into something like the Merchants, because nobody else would help them. As for Skidmark supposedly running them further into the ground for money...

Looking at Skidmark, the man didn't give the feeling of being well off. His costume wasn't high quality. He didn't look fat, or even well fed. In fact, he looked a lot like most of the other people in the warehouse. Someone who lived day to day, making ends meet. Maybe this was just wishful thinking on Greg's part, trying to see something human in a monster, but he couldn't be sure. When it came down to it... He could take this chance. Hopefully, he wouldn't come to regret it.

Greg sighed. "Alright. I'll have to start with demolishing this place, and I'll use the materials I can salvage from that to start work on the replacement building. Don't be mistaken, this is _not_ me joining the Merchants. I can't agree with everything you do. But this is something I can do, and I think these people need it. You'll let them stay here?" Greg looked at Skidmark harshly, and the man simply scoffed.

"Sure, whatever kid. This is just a test case, though, remember that. If you don't deliver, or if you're lyin'..." He trailed off, giving me a serious look. "Well, make sure it doesn't fuckin' come to that." He signaled to the crowd milling around uncertainly, causing them to file out of the warehouse, carrying out as much of the lab equipment as they could carry. Trainwreck stepped forward and gathered up the rest, and followed them out. Skidmark stayed for another moment. "Don't take too long about it asslips, I'm not the patient type." That said, he stepped outside as well, setting up watch in a fold out chair sitting in the bed of a large pickup truck, presumably that he and Trainwreck had used to reach the warehouse.

It looked like Greg would have an audience. Wonderful. He swallowed before taking a look around the building. What had he gotten himself into? First things first, he needed some sort of tool to take the place apart with. An iron sword and wooden hammer wouldn't cut it. He pulled out the workbench and considered the list of options he had. Bashing things with a hammer didn't seem like it would be his best option when it came to demolitions. Ideally, he wanted something similar to his shovel, as the dirt had vanished into his inventory as he had dug. Something similar for the building.

Maybe the Iron Pickaxe would do the job?

OoOoO

In short order, the building was half gone. The upper half, to be specific. Greg realized that taking out one side might not be the best plan about ten seconds in, and had proceeded with more care from that point on. Just as he'd hoped, sections of the building he disassembled with the pickaxe slid right into his inventory. However, there was another aspect of his power that had simultaneously surprised and delighted him.

He didn't need to touch things to take them apart.

Just as he'd been able to place the platforms on the ship from outside of his reach, all he had to do was point the pickaxe at something and focus on tearing it up for it to begin to vanish. He'd noticed when he had been swinging the pickaxe while thinking about another step of the construction effort that he hadn't actually been hitting a section that disappeared, and a quick bout of experimentation confirmed the revelation.

Not that he was sure of exactly how useful that was. But it was interesting! A fairly short amount of time later, Greg looked at the now vacant lot with a combination of pride and trepidation. He'd managed to demolish the building, yes. But now he was going to have to build a new one. He didn't have anything like a degree in architecture, or even a prior _interest_ in the subject. How the hell was he qualified to build something?! Still, Skidmark was watching, and he had the faint feeling that while declining the man's offer when he'd made it was one thing, tearing apart his warehouse and then giving up would be worse. Besides, it wouldn't cost Greg much to try! This could be fun, honestly. He hadn't given construction much thought before today, hell, even with his little hideout beneath the shed, all he'd done was dig a hole. Something about the concept of actually _constructing a building_ really resonated with him.

Moving his focus to his inventory, he considered his resources. He had a great deal of concrete, steel from the braces, and some sort of aluminum alloy from the actual wall plates, along with some odds and ends he had no idea what to do with, like the electrical wiring. None of the bulbs had been there, but he hadn't really expected that of a building this old in this part of town.

Now let's see, from what little he could recall from gleaned knowledge of construction, the first thing that had to be done was the laying of some sort of foundation. This usually involved... digging a hole? He was pretty sure about that. 70% certain, at least. Pulling out his shovel, he began to dig a rectangular hole in the ground. Depth of a few feet, about four, and since he was just making things up now, he was going to roll with it. He returned the shovel to his inventory and placed his focus on the concrete. He had a lot of it, but if this was at all similar to the platform, then it should be fairly simple.

Placing a smooth coating of concrete on the walls of hole was a mental excercise, and he had to pull back out the pickaxe whenever he made a mistake, but it worked. From there, it was like some sort of instinctual process. He found himself going into a slight trance state as he continued. Houses needed things like walls, obviously, and how to make those was obvious...

...Ceiling too, and he could make that pretty simply too... What was he doing again? He didn't know how to build a house, why was the world blurring a little?

He vaguely remembered going to the workbench and fashioning a door out of his still sizable stores of wood, but then it returned to the fuzzy shapes that he couldn't quite recognize.

By the time his awareness fully returned to him, there was a... structure, in front of him. It more closely resembled an apartment complex than a warehouse, now. He opened the front door, still in a slight daze, and began to explore the insides.

There were at least half a dozen rooms, including a dining room, living room and several bedrooms. He didn't remember making all this furniture. In fact... he looked into his inventory with a heavy heart, and his worries were confirmed. He barely had any wood left! He'd earned... well, obtained, that wood at no small price to himself. Trudging back through the front door, he was caught off guard by Skidmark.

"Gotta say, that's some pretty fuckin' good work! Brings all sorts of possibilities to mind. With that sort of power..." He looked the building up and down, hand on his chin, before glancing at Greg. "You look like shit, though. Whaddaya call yourself, kid?"

Greg paused, swaying a little. Cape name? Damn, he knew he'd forgotten something. Nothing really came to mind, so he picked something simple. "Builder, I guess."

Skidmark cackled slightly. "Simple, I can dig it! Anyhow, if you come back here tomorrow, or any point this week, really, you can get ahold of me by grabbing any of my boys. I'd definitely be willing to set up a more permanent arrangement, ya see. For now, though, I've got places to be. I've left Squealer alone too long as it is, gotta make sure she's still workin'." He stalked back to his truck, ratty cape billowing behind him. Some heroes could pull off a cape, but Skidmark wasn't among their number.

Greg walked off too, slightly unsteadily. At some point between the ex-warehouse and the bus, he had made a stop to change back into his normal clothes. It was fairly late when he got home, far later than he had meant to be out, and his mom hovered over him the moment he walked in the door. "Greg! Where have you been? I've been worried sick, you can't keep doing this, Greg! I know that your walks have been important to you recently, but at least leave me a note!" Greg was about to reply, though with what, he had no idea. Instead, he yawned, and his mom calmed down slightly, a slightly sympathetic look adorning her face. "We can talk about this tomorrow though, into bed with you!" He nodded slightly, before stumbling up the stairs to his room.

Falling into bed, he lay his head on his pillow. The day had been surreal. What had started out as what would have been his first day of crime fighting had somehow turned into a humanitarian effort, though he didn't really regret that. Whatever sort of bargain he might have made with Skidmark was what worried him. Either he was helping to defang the Merchants with some sort of economic force, or he was going to have to fight them pretty soon to avoid getting labelled a villain. He wanted to keep trying to piece apart the day and help it make sense, but the slightly dizzy feeling he'd had ever since his episode at the warehouse wasn't going away. Maybe he actually needed some sleep for once. Oh well, it wouldn't take any actual time, and it might make his head feel better. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax his mind as usual. Feeling the shift around him that generally signified his jump through the night to morning, he opened his eyes again. His headache was gone, now!

Then, he stopped short. His headache wasn't the only thing that was gone. He wasn't in his room anymore. He was lying on his back on a field of grass, a few trees dotting the landscape around him.

Where in the world was he?

OoOoO

 ** _Author Note:_** I've got mixed feelings on this chapter. I'm finally starting to get into the meat of things, though. Please, give me some feedback, comments, criticism, all that jazz. Sorry about the delay, Skidmark is HARD to write.


End file.
